


when you kiss me on the midnight street

by lanyon



Series: i've got your blood under my fingernails [11]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Community: ccbingo, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-13
Updated: 2012-02-14
Packaged: 2017-10-31 03:12:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/339230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lanyon/pseuds/lanyon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Barton shrugs and he knows Coulson probably gets it. Sometimes it’s hard to remember that he’s only human, especially when he’s flanked by Thor and Steve, and by Tony in that goddamned suit. Sometimes it’s hard to remember that he has a finite supply of blood and that he is not invulnerable but every close call sets him closer to a sort of immortality (though some might call it borrowed time). There are so many days on which he should have died but he was saved, by the Avengers, and by the wonders of modern medicine, and, mostly, by Phil Coulson’s voice in his ear, guiding him home over crackly comm links, with threats and with endless patience.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. riot on the streets, touch beneath the sheets

It’s cold but it is New York, at night, in February. It’s cold but Barton can’t feel a damned thing because he’s grinning like an idiot. It’s cold and there are flurries of snow and sleet and none of it matters a damn because Phil Coulson can sing and his gloved fingers brush against the back of Barton’s hand.

 

Coulson doesn’t like taking cabs, in Manhattan or anywhere, because he hates being a passenger. So, they walk. They’re not the only pair-or-couple winding their way through the streets but they are entirely unlike all the others. Barton and Coulson are unique and two-of-a-kind and it doesn’t matter what Hallmark day it is.

 

“Should I have bought you a rose, sir?” asks Barton as they pass yet another couple laden down with flowers and sappy expressions.

 

“Only if you have no self-preservation instincts, Barton.” Coulson’s smiling, though.

 

“Everyone knows I don’t.”

 

Coulson’s smile fades and the touch of his fingers to Barton’s hand is more deliberate. “Work on it, will you?”

 

Barton shrugs and he knows Coulson probably gets it. Sometimes it’s hard to remember that he’s only human, especially when he’s flanked by Thor and Steve, and by Tony in that goddamned suit. Sometimes it’s hard to remember that he has a finite supply of blood and that he is not invulnerable but every close call sets him closer to a sort of immortality (though some might call it borrowed time). There are so many days on which he should have died but he was saved, by the Avengers, and by the wonders of modern medicine, and, mostly, by Phil Coulson’s voice in his ear, guiding him home over crackly comm links, with threats and with endless patience.

 

All of it has led to this point; the corner of 2nd and 65th where they’ve stopped at the red pedestrian light, even though there’s no traffic and they’re alone in Manhattan, apart from the young woman in scrubs who defies traffic laws in her hurry to get home. Barton and Coulson are now facing each other, with only their plumes of warm breath connecting them, mingling, dissipating.

 

“We shouldn’t do this,” says Coulson, adding words to the air between them.

 

Barton can only smile. Not this again; oh, not this fallacy. “Why not?” he asks, his head tilted to the side.

 

“Because I’m your superior.”

 

Barton laughs. “I have no problems with authority.”  
  
“And yet so many would beg to differ.” Coulson folds his arms, almost like the way he does when he’s anticipating an explosion. “I’m – I’m older than you.”

 

This time, Barton doesn’t laugh. He wants to reach out and touch Coulson’s face “You’re not old.”  
  
“I’m nearly fifty.”  
  
“I’m nearly forty.”  
  
“Whippersnapper.”  
  
“Stop making excuses.”

 

(They’re like ships firing shots across each others’ bows.)

 

Coulson’s eyes close. The pedestrian light has switched from _don’t walk_ to _walk_ and back again. “It’s entirely against the rules.”  
  
“What rules?” It’s not as though Barton has combed through SHIELD’s rules and regulations but he’s pretty sure that there is nothing that explicitly forbids a relationship between two operatives.

 

“My rules,” says Coulson. There’s something a little helpless in his bearing ( _walk, don’t walk_ ). “Or, you know, the one that says _don’t get into a position where you cannot be without Clint Barton_.”

 

Barton is still. His heart might actually have stopped. These are admissions he had not expected.  

 

“I think I broke it a long time ago, though.”

 

“How can you tell?” Barton’s voice is low and hoarse. There is no note of hope buried in his words, no surge of feeling or spark of revelation. He wants to know. He wants to know when Phil began to feel this.

 

Coulson’s eyes open. There is a strange smile on his face. He takes a step back and raises his chin, regarding Barton quietly.  He extends his hand and his fingertips barely reach Barton’s chest. “Because this is too far.”

 

Barton takes a step closer. “Better?”

 

Coulson nods.

 

Barton lifts his hand and gently lays his fingers on Coulson’s cheek, his thumb resting on Coulson’s jaw. “And this?”

 

Coulson has to clear his throat before he can talk. “Better.”

 

Barton raises his other hand to smooth away the creases on Coulson’s forehead. They kiss and Barton has no idea who closes the gap between them or when Coulson’s arms drifted around his waist, under his worn leather jacket. He has no idea what else there is in the world when everything is distilled into this. The kiss is laughably delicate and Coulson’s lips aren’t cold for long and Barton can’t be sure how long they stand there ( _walk, don’t walk_ ) but there is a raised voice and some punk kids looking to start something. Coulson’s eyelids are heavy and Barton’s reminded how tired he looked earlier but they both turn to look at the kids and Coulson’s got that expression on his face, the one that Barton knows too well. It’s an expression that says _this ought to be good_ and Coulson moves his elbow just enough to show that he is armed.

 

The kids move on and so do Coulson and Barton. They’re no closer to holding hands or to nodding amiably at any other couples or strangers or uniformed police officers but they cross the street on red and Barton wants to know how many more of Coulson’s rules have been broken tonight.

  
There’ll be time enough to find out. Dawn is hours away and there are secrets to share and scars to trace and Barton knows that every raised ridge of tissue on Coulson’s body will anger him as much as if they were newly inflicted (yes, even the appendectomy scar) but he will find the peace between them. 


	2. faith can keep you warm but i'll teach you how to shake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coulson has a list of things one ought not to do. It is a long and exhaustive list. It is also a changeable list, for all his seeming inflexibility. He has a list, too, of regrets. It is not long and there is no overlap between the two because Coulson does not exist in a world of random intersections or haphazard trajectories; he is parallel lines, like train-tracks, like a rushing locomotive, and if Barton travels at speed and Coulson travels all the faster, there will be a head-on collision and this will be the force of their impact.

It’s 3:47am and the digital clock beside Coulson’s bed casts a blue glow in the dark and peaceful night. It’s 3:47am and there’s an arm wrapped around his waist and a hand resting directly over his heart and warm breath on the back of his neck. Ever so slowly, he turns around so that he is facing Barton, whose eyes are open. He smiles and so Coulson smiles.

 

There is so much that it is not new. Barton has spent countless nights here, albeit under the quilt on the couch, where he claims to be perfectly comfortable. They have seen each other naked before but there is nothing attractive about decontamination showers.

 

They have not kissed before tonight but they are not teenagers. They do not need to whisper _hi_ into each other’s mouths like they’re surprised the other is here. It does not stop them. It does not stop Coulson from dragging his hand down the bump and dip of Barton’s spine and it does not stop Barton’s breathy laugh, muffled against Coulson’s shoulder.

 

Coulson has a list of things one ought not to do. It is a long and exhaustive list. It is also a changeable list, for all his seeming inflexibility. He has a list, too, of regrets. It is not long and there is no overlap between the two because Coulson does not exist in a world of random intersections or haphazard trajectories; he is parallel lines, like train-tracks, like a rushing locomotive, and if Barton travels at speed and Coulson travels all the faster, there will be a head-on collision and this will be the force of their impact.

 

Phil Coulson is a man seldom ruled by his heart and yet, and yet, he is a man in love. He rolls onto his back and this is the force of Barton’s impact and Barton’s skin is impossibly warm to the touch and Coulson drags his mouth along Barton’s jaw. They kiss hungrily, sighing, and Coulson’s fingers dig into Barton’s upper arms and there will be bruises and if he could etch his fingerprints into Barton’s skin, he would. He settles for threading kisses along Barton’s broad shoulders and they cannot stop laughing.

 

Barton says _sir_ and Coulson knows that it is a deliberate ploy; every time Barton, with downturned eyes or piercing gaze, murmurs the word in future, at HQ or on a mission, Coulson will think of this moment; his ankles crossed behind Barton’s back, his heel digging into the base of Barton’s spine as Barton pushes further in and Coulson urges him on with _yes_ and _Clint_ and the sort of incoherence that can make sense only to them and only now, entangled and engrossed as they have become.

 

There is nothing quiet here; there is no longer anything gentle; there is an almighty and ferocious clamour of headboard and mattress springs and Coulson needs to feel this all day. When he sits at his desk, when he shifts in his seat, with exasperation or impatience or fondness, he needs to feel Barton, in him, in him and in the way Barton’s name is clawed from his throat; Barton, whose fingers are clumsily caressing his cheek as they slow down and come to lie together, gasping for air.

  
Coulson drags the quilt up over them and they whisper, as though to disturb this heavy peace is to commit great blasphemy. He can see the curve of Barton’s cheek and the clock says 5.03am and Barton asks if they should go to work early, to avoid comments and conjecture.

 

“Though, if I’m to do the walk of shame with anyone, Phil, I’m glad it’s with you.”

 

Coulson laughs and he aches and he supposes that it will be hard to explain away the stubble rash so he might as well stay close to the scene of the crime.

 

When they get to work, it is 9am and most self-respecting New Yorkers have been at their desks for hours. Most self-respecting SHIELD agents should be considerably subtler than they are but Sitwell and Hill have never been any good at poker.

 

“What’s going on with you and Clint?” asks Natasha.

 

Coulson meets her gaze and says nothing and that’s evidently all she needs to know. It’s really all anyone needs to know. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +Chapter title from Ryan Adams' _Gonna Make You Love Me_.  
>  +This chapter is for all the Feels and for everyone who's been reading along at home. Happy Valentine's Day to you all - I'm lucky to have you.

**Author's Note:**

> +Finally, we're at the crest of the wave.  
> +Title from David Gray's _This Year's Love_ (heaven knows it's high time).  
>  +Written for Bingo Prompt "Sharing secrets".  
> +Huge thanks to everyone who has taken the time to leave feedback/kudos on this series. You're really keeping me motivated.


End file.
